Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

I Found Myself As This One Latenight Chasing Shadows Across the Ceiling

and she found herself as one of those shadows.

Disjointed phrasesscratching long-ish fingernails across a wood floorSHE-found herself as one of those scratchingsI located her as a windfallthis bitter-delicate thingthis petroleum bagswallowed by tree-limbs then let gocaught in the spindly things like sultry witch fingers.SHE-located herself as the -phrenia to my schizo-but also the thing which keeps me calmand it is a strange clamit is encroached on on a sidewalk by hovering little vortexesthese kansas tornadosthe post-vortex-wichita-sutras ginsy never could've imagined.

it is that all love ends in deathThat All Love Ends in DeathTHAT ALL LOVE ENDS IN DEATHbut does it really?naw, I don't think it doesI think it tears from the flesh of deathand lives forever as a happy vampire.

it is that all religion ends in extacythat that opens the out doorthat real paradise is, pretty frankly, in hell,seeing bright lights in orgasm snap-seconds.and if our religion was love, we could live forever and let the vampires carry 'round the chunks of us that argue like blood brothers over the definition of sacred.but we ain't there yetwe ain't there yet,not mattering how much in the back of our minds we know that those that were here a long, long, time before us did a helluva lot better than we ever could. before slave trades turned this whole love business into a slave trade and a business.now those of us who still give a fuck got caught blood fingered murdering the business and the slave in our second selves and the innocence there too just so we could know these things firsthand;what it means to be almost rightwhat it means to be carnaland what it means to be cruel.

cus we know thatjust as long as we will never lovewe will never be capable of murderand that if you care enoughthere ain't no such thing as suicide.

this ain't 'bout youwhoever the fuck you arebecause by the time you got here,to my pen,it was already bleeding so much of the new wine that i was too drunk to remember yr face,

bleeding fucking blood

getting me in and out of the massive human rave that keeps me in and out of calm

flickering brightness machine, she was telling me that all love doesn't end in deathand i said, baby, that don't even matter,we ain't either of those places yet.

butIt is ambling and structureless as this poem,a freight without tracksIt is ambling and structureless as this poema freight without tracksrepetitive as this phraserepetitive as that metaphor,as much a spiritual communion as this sharpie on paperand it stares me down like the man across from me at the diner is now, we are the only two people in the room.It is that never happening AK I will shoot you with in the revolution.It is the perpetually bullet-less revelatory rhapsody I've found, like, stumbled across.it is never looking back at the thing that came before...like the way i wrote this.It is never looking back at the thing that came beforeIt is elaborate chicken scratch on white paperit is glorious as this thump-thoomp-thoomplike coffee on a do-nothing day,this raw-boned tingleand the day and you stretch on before me like I can see it all at oncetranslucent as that window on Cherokeewhere time is broken-downfinallytranslucent as that windowendless as this thought process.